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The Sabine F&.rn>§5BfiS535 
~"~ 1§ By Eugene And 
Roswell Martin Fields " 




Class 
Book 



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O-LkiaJl 



GopFightN°_j 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



ECHOES 



FROM 



THE SABINE FARM 



KSchoefc' Horn- the 
Sabine -Tarm 



by 
Eugene- and ♦Ho*iueU.*Jttartm *9FicU 



JfQ r t&Z<<<*~^> y/<t J 






-■. 



- 




Cljarlf • ^cribner's • Sons 
iB • D • r a • rcti 




r3 /(,6>7 

.E7s 



Copyright, by A. C. McClurg and Co., 1892: 
by Charles Scribner's Sons, 1895. 



Urubrrst'tg 19ress: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 




PAL Gray- 




OME, dear old friend, and with us twain 

To calm Digentian groves repair: 
The turtle coos his sweet refrain 
And posies are a-blooming there ; 
And there the romping Sabine girls 
Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls. 



I know a certain ilex-tree 

Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear. 
Its voices summon you and me : 

Come, let us haste to share its cheer ! 
Methinks the rapturous song it sings 
Should woo our thoughts from mortal things. 



TO M. L. GRAY. 

But, good old friend, I charge thee well, 
Watch thou my brother all the while, 

Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell 

Round him unschooled in female guile. 

Those damsels have no charms for me ; 

Guard thou that brother. — I'll guard thee! 



And, lo, sweet friend ! behold this cup, 
Round which the garlands intertwine ; 

With Classic it is foaming up. 

And we would drink to thee and thine. 

And of the draught thou shalt partake, 

Who lov'st us for our father's sake. 



Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm 

Echo the songs of long ago, 
With power to soothe and grace to charm 

What ills humanity may know ; 
With that sweet music in the air, 
'T is Love and Summer everywhere. 



TO M. L. GRAY. 

So, though no grief consumes our lot 
(Since all our lives have been discreet), 

Come, in this consecrated spot, 

Let 's see if pagan cheer be sweet. 

Now, then, the songs ; but, first, more wine. 

The gods be with you. friends of mine ! 



E. F. 





(^ONTENTS-OF -THE- BOOK 



To M. L. Gray 

An Invitation to Maecenas . 
Chloris Properly Rebuked . 
To the Fountain of Bandusia 
To the Fountain of Bandusia 
The Preference Declared 
A Tardy Apology. I. 
A Tardy Apology. II. 
To the Ship of State 
Quitting Again . . . 
Sailor and Shade . . 
Let Us Have Peace . 
To Quintus Dellius . 
Poking Fun at Xanthias 
To Aristius Fuscus 
To Albius Tibullus. I. 



Odes, III. 29 . 
Odes, III. 15 . 
Odes, III. n . 



E. F . . 
E. F. . 
R. M. F. 
E. F. . 
R. M. F. 



II 



To Albius Tibullus 

To MiECENAS . . 

To His Book . . 

Fame vs. Riches. 

The Lyric Muse 

A Counterblast against Garlic, 

An Excuse for Lalage .... 



Odes, I. 3S . 
Epode XIV 



Odes, I. 14 
Odes, III. 2 
Odes, I. 2S 
Odes, I. 27 
Odes, II. 3 
Odes, II. 4 
Odes, I. 22 
Odes, I. 23 



E. F. . 
R. M. F. 
E. F. . 



R. M. F. 
E. F. . 
E. F. . 
E. F. . 
E. F. . 



R. M. F. 
E. F. . 
E. F. . 
R. M. F. 



Ars 

Ars 



Odes, I. 1 
Epistle XX. . 
Poetica, line 323, 
Poetica, line 301, 
Epode III. . . 
Odes, II. 5 . . 



R. M. F. 
R. M. F. 
E. F. . 
E. F. . 
R. M. F. 
R. M. F. 



PAGE 

5 

13 
16 
18 
20 
22 

2 3 

2 5 
27 

29 

3 1 
34 
36 
38 
41 
43 
45 
47 
5° 
5 2 
53 
56 
53 



IO CONTENTS OF THE BOOK. 

PAGE 

An Appeal to Lyce .... Odes, IV. 13 . . R. M. F. . . 60 

A Roman Winter-Piece. I. . Odes, I. 9 . . . E. F. . . . 62 

A Roman Winter-Piece. II R. M. F. . . 64 

To Diana Odes, III. 22 . . R. M.F. . . 66 

To His Lute Odes, I. 32 . . . E.F. ... 67 

To Leuconoe. I Odes, I. 11 . . R. M.F. . . 69 

To Leuconoe. II E. F. . . . 70 

To Ligurinus. I Odes, IV. 10 . . R. M. F. . . 71 

To Ligurinus. II E. F. . . . yT> 

The Happy Isles Epode XIV. line 41, E. F. ... 75 

Consistency Ars Poetica . . E. F. . . . yy 

To Postumus Odes, II. 14 . . R. M. F. . . 79 

To Mistress Pyrrha. I. . . Odes, I. 5 . . . E. F. . . . 82 

To Mistress Pyrrha. II R.M.F. . . 84 

To Melpomene Odes, III. 30 . . E. F. . . . 85 

To Phyllis. I Odes, IV. 11 . . E. F. . . . 87 

To Phyllis. II R.M.F. . . 90 

To Chloe. I Odes, I. 23 . . . R. M. F. . . 93 

To Chloe. II E. F. . . . 94 

A Paraphrase E.F. . . . 95 

Another Paraphrase E.F. . . . 96 

A Third Paraphrase E. F. . . . 97 

A Fourth Paraphrase E. F. . . . 98 

To Maecenas Odes, I. 20 . . . E. F. . . . 99 

To Barine Odes II. 8 . . . R.M.F. . . 101 

The Reconciliation. I. . . Odes, III. 9 . . E.F. . . . 103 

The Reconciliation. II R.M.F. . . 105 

The Roasting of Lydia . . Odes, I. 25 . . R.M.F. , . 108 

To Glycera Odes, I. 19 . . R.M.F. . . no 

To Lydia. I Odes, I. 13 . . . E.F. . . . 112 

To Lydia. II R. M.F. . . 114 

To Quintius Hirpinus . . . Odes, II. 11 . . E. F. . . . 116 



CONTENTS OF THE BOOK. II 

PAGE 

Wine, Women, and Song . . Odes, I. 18 . . . E. F. . . . nS 

An Ode to Fortune . . . Odes, I. 35 . . . E. F. . . . 121 

To a Jar of Wine .... Odes, III. 21 . . E. F. . . . 123 

To Pompeius Varus .... Odes, II. 7 . . E.F. . . . 125 

The Poet : s Metamorphosis . Odes, II. 20 . . E. F. . . . 127 

To Venus Odes, I. 30 . . . E. F. . . . 129 

In the Springtime. I. . . . Odes, I. 4 . . . E. F. . . . 130 

In the Springtime. II R. M.F. . . 132 

To a Bully Epode VI. . . . E. F. . . . 134 

To Mother Venus 136 

To Lydia Odes, I. 8 ... E. F. ... 139 

To Neobule Odes, III. 12 . . R. M.F. . . 141 

At the Ball Game .... Odes, V. 17 . . R. M.F. . . 143 

Epilogue E. F. . . . 147 




ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 



AN INVITATION TO MAECENAS. 




EAR, noble friend ! a virgin cask 

Of wine solicits your attention ; 
And roses fair, to deck your hair, 
And things too numerous to mention. 
So tear yourself awhile away 

From urban turmoil, pride, and splendor, 
And deign to share what humble fare 

And sumptuous fellowship I tender. 
The sweet content retirement brings 
Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings. 



14 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

The evil planets have combined 

To make the weather hot and hotter; 
By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams 

Vainly of ice-cream soda-water. 
And meanwhile you, defying heat, 

With patriotic ardor ponder 
On what old Rome essays at home, 

And what her heathen do out yonder. 
Maecenas, no such vain alarm 
Disturbs the quiet of this farm ! 

God in His providence obscures 

The goal beyond this vale of sorrow, 
And smiles at men in pity when 

They seek to penetrate the morrow. 
With faith that all is for the best, 

Let 's bear what burdens are presented, 
That we shall say, let come what may, 

" We die, as we have lived, contented ! 
Ours is to-day ; God's is the rest, — 
He doth ordain who knoweth best." 



AN INVITATION TO MAECENAS. 15 

Dame Fortune plays me many a prank. 

When she is kind, oh, how I go it ! 
But if again she 's harsh, — why, then 

I am a very proper poet ! 
When favoring gales bring in my ships, 

I hie to Rome and live in clover ; 
Elsewise I steer my skiff out here, 

And anchor till the storm blows over. 
Compulsory virtue is the charm 
Of life upon the Sabine farm ! 





CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED. 

HLORIS, my friend, I pray you your miscon- 
duct to forswear ; 
The wife of poor old Ibycus should have 
more s avoir faire. 
A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's 

door, 
Should not play with the girly girls, and think she 's 
en 7'apport. 



What 's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay ; 
Your daughter very properly courts the jeuncsse 

doree, — 
A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy 

restrain, 
But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles a rAmericaine. 



CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED. 1 7 

'T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and 

poor, 
To sit and spin than to engage in an affaire tfamour. 
The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not 

for you ; 
Remember what the poet says : Ce mo7ide est plein de 
fous / 




TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 




FOUNTAIN of Bandusia ! 

Whence crystal waters flow, 
With garlands gay and wine I '11 pay 
The sacrifice I owe ; 
A sportive kid with budding horns 

I have, whose crimson blood 
Anon shall dye and sanctify 
Thy cool and babbling flood. 



O fountain of Bandusia ! 

The Dog-star's hateful spell 
No evil brings into the springs 

That from thy bosom well ; 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BAND U SI A. 1 9 

Here oxen, wearied by the plow, 

The roving cattle here 
Hasten in quest of certain rest, 

And quaff thy gracious cheer. 

O fountain of Bandusia ! 

Ennobled shalt thou be, 
For I shall sing the joys that spring 

Beneath yon ilex-tree. 
Yes, fountain of Bandusia, 

Posterity shall know 
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks 

Singing and dancing go. 





TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

FOUNTAIN of Bandusia ! more glittering than 

glass, 
And worthy of the pleasant wine and toasts 
that freely pass ; 
More worthy of the flowers with which thou modestly 

art hid, 
To-morrow willing hands shall sacrifice to thee a kid. 



In vain the glory of the brow where proudly swell 

above 
The growing horns, significant of battle and of love ; 
For in thy honor he shall die, — the offspring of the 

herd, — 
And with his crimson life-blood thy cold waters shall be 

stirred. 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BAND US/A. 21 

The Dog-star's cruel season, with its fierce and blazing 
heat, 

Has never sent its scorching rays into thy glad retreat ; 

The oxen, wearied with the plow, the herd which wan- 
ders near, 

Have found a grateful respite and delicious coolness here. 

When of the graceful ilex on the hollow rocks I sing, 
Thou shalt become illustrious, O sweet Bandusian spring ! 
Among the noble fountains which have been enshrined 

in fame, 
Thy dancing, babbling waters shall in song our homage 

claim. 




THE PREFERENCE DECLARED. 




OY, I detest the Persian pomp ; 

I hate those linden-bark devices ; 
And as for roses, holy Moses ! 

They can't be got at living prices 
Myrtle is good enough for us, — 

For you, as bearer of my flagon ; 
For me, supine beneath this vine, 
Doing my best to get a jag on ! 




A TARDY APOLOGY. 



I. 




,-ECENAS, you will be my death, — though 
friendly you profess yourself, — 
If to me in a strain like this so often you 
address yourself: 
"Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock 

you us? 
Why with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?" 



A god, Maecenas ! yea, a god hath proved the very 

curse of me ! 
If my iambics are not done, pray, do not think the 

worse of me ; 
Anacreon for young Bathyllus burned without apology, 
And wept his simple measures on a sample of conchology. 



24 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Now, you yourself, Maecenas, are enjoying this beatitude ; 
If by no brighter beauty Ilium fell, you 've cause for 

gratitude. 
A certain Phryne keeps me on the rack with lovers 

numerous ; 
This is the artful hussy's neat conception of the humorous ! 



U 




A TARDY APOLOGY. 



II. 




OU ask me, friend, 
Why I don't send 
The long since due-and -paid- for numbers ; 
Why, songless, I 
As drunken lie 
Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. 



Long time ago 

(As well you know) 
I started in upon that carmen ; 

My work was vain, — 

But why complain? 
When gods forbid, how helpless are men ! 



26 



ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Some ages back, 

The sage Anack 
Courted a frisky Samian body, 

Singing her praise 

In metered phrase 
As flowing as his bowls of toddy. 

'Til I was hoarse 

Might I discourse 
Upon the cruelties of Venus ; 

'T were waste of time 

As well of rhyme, 
For you Ve been there yourself, Maecenas ! 

Perfect your bliss 

If some fair miss 
Love you yourself and not your minae ; 

I, fortune's sport, 

All vainly court 
The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne ! 




TO THE SHIP OF STATE. 




SHIP of state, 
Shall new winds bear you back upon the sea? 
What are you doing? Seek the harbor's lee 
Ere 't is too late ! 



Do you bemoan 
Your side was stripped of oarage in the blast? 
Swift Africus has weakened, too, your mast ; 

The sailyards groan. 



Of cables bare. 
Your keel can scarce endure the lordly wave. 
Your sails are rent ; you have no gods to save, 

Or answer pray'r. 



2 8 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Though Pontic pine, 
The noble daughter of a far-famed wood, 
You boast your lineage and title good, — 

A useless line ! 

The sailor there 
In painted sterns no reassurance finds ; 
Unless you owe derision to the winds, 

Beware — beware ! 

My grief erewhile, 
But now my care — my longing ! shun the seas 
That flow between the gleaming Cyclades, 

Each shining isle. 




QUITTING AGAIN. 

HE hero of 

Affairs of love 
By far too numerous to be mentioned, 
And scarred as I 'm, 
It seemeth time 
That I were mustered out and pensioned. 




So on this wall 

My lute and all 
I hang, and dedicate to Venus ; 

And I implore 

But one thing more 
Ere all is at an end between us. 



30 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

O goddess fair 

Who reignest where 
The weather 's seldom bleak and snowy, 

This boon I urge : 

In anger scourge 
My old cantankerous sweetheart, Chloe ! 




SAILOR AND SHADE. 



SAILOR. 




OU, who have compassed land and sea, 
Now all unburied lie ; 

All vain your store of human lore, 
For you were doomed to die. 
The sire of Pelops likewise fell, — 

Jove's honored mortal guest ; 
So king and sage of every age 

At last lie down to rest. 
Plutonian shades enfold the ghost 

Of that majestic one 
Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, 

Had once been Pentheus' son ; 

Believe who may, he 's passed away, 

And what he did is done. 



32 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

A last night comes alike to all ; 

One path we all must tread, 
Through sore disease or stormy seas 

Or fields with corpses red. 
Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leads 

To regions of the dead. 



SHADE. 

The fickle twin Illyrian gales 

O'erwhelmed me on the wave ; 
But you that live, I pray you give 

My bleaching bones a grave ! 
Oh, then when cruel tempests rage 

You all unharmed shall be ; 
Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land 

And Neptune's on the sea. 
Perchance you fear to do what may 

Bring evil to your race? 
Oh, rather fear that like me here 

You '11 lack a burial place. 



SAILOR AND SHADE. 33 

So, though you be in proper haste, 

Bide long enough, I pray, 
To give me, friend, what boon shall send 

My soul upon its way ! 





LET US HAVE PEACE. 

N maudlin spite let Thracians fight 
Above their bowls of liquor ; 
But such as we, when on a spree, 
Should never brawl and bicker ! 

These angry words and clashing swords 
Are quite de trop, I 'm thinking ; 

Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, 
And drown your wrath in drinking. 



Aha, 't is fine, — this mellow wine 
With which our host would dope us ! 

Now let us hear what pretty dear 
Entangles him of Opus. 



LET US HAVE PEACE. 35 

I see you blush, — nay, comrades, hush ! 

Come, friend, though they despise you, 
Tell me the name of that fair dame, — 

Perchance I may advise you. 

O wretched youth ! and is it truth 

You love that fickle lady? 
I, doting dunce, courted her once ; 

Since when, she 's reckoned shady ! 




TO QUINTUS DELLIUS. 




E tranquil, Dellius, I pray; 
For though you pine your life away 
With dull complaining breath, 
Or speed with song and wine each day, 
Still, still your doom is death. 



Where the white poplar and the pine 
In glorious arching shade combine, 

And the brook singing goes, 
Bid them bring store of nard and wine 



And garlands of the rose. 



TO QUINT US DELLIUS. 37 

Let 's live while chance and youth obtain ; 
Soon shall you quit this fair domain 

Kissed by the Tiber's gold, 
And all your earthly pride and gain 

Some heedless heir shall hold. 



One ghostly boat shall some time bear 
From scenes of mirthfulness or care 

Each fated human soul, — 
Shall waft and leave its burden where 

The waves of Lethe roll. 



So come, I prithee, Dellius, mine ; 

Let 's sing our songs and drink oitr wine 

In that sequestered nook 
Where the ivhite poplar and the pine 

Stand listening to the brook. 





POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS. 

F your love for your handmaid you need feel 
no shame. 
Don't apologize, Xanthias, pray; 
Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame 

For Brissy, his slave, as they say. 
Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was moved 

By the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms ; 
And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved 
To gather a girl to his arms. 



Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid 
(This Phyllis you fain would enjoy) 

Hasn't parents whose wealth would cast you in the 
shade, — 
Who would ornament you Xan, my boy? 



POKING FUN AT X ANT HI AS. 39 

Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears, 
And is bitterly thinking the while 

Of the royal good times of her earlier years, 
When her folks regulated the style ! 



It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believe 

That she of whose charms you are proud 
Is beautiful only as means to deceive, — 

Merely one of the horrible crowd. 
So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife, 

So averse to all notions of greed 
Was surely not born of a mother whose life 

Is a chapter you 'd better not read. 



As an unbiased party I feel it my place 

(For I don't like to do things by halves) 

To compliment Phyllis, — her arms and her face 
And (excuse me !) her delicate calves. 



40 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Tut, tut ! don't get angry, my boy, or suspect 
You have any occasion to fear 

A man whose deportment is always correct, 
And is now in his forty-first year ! 




TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. 




USCUS, whoso to good inclines, 
And is a faultless liver, 
Xor Moorish spear nor bow need fear, 
Xor poison-arrowed quiver. 



Ay, though through desert wastes he roam, 
Or scale the rugged mountains, 

Or rest beside the murmuring tide 
Of weird Hydaspan fountains ! 



Lo, on a time, I gayly paced 
The Sabine confines shady, 

And sung in glee of Lalage, 
My own and dearest lady; 



42 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

And as I sung, a monster wolf 

Slunk through the thicket from me ; 

But for that song, as I strolled along, 
He would have overcome me ! 

Set me amid those poison mists 
Which no fair gale dispelleth, 

Or in the plains where silence reigns, 
And no thing human dwelleth, — 

Still shall I love my Lalage, 
Still sing her tender graces ; 

And while I sing, my theme shall bring 
Heaven to those desert places ! 




TO ALBIUS T1BULLUS. 



II OT to lament that rival flame 




'mSJJ Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, 



Xor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, 
How many a modern instance warns you ! 



Fair-browed Lycoris pines away 
Because her Cyrus loves another; 

The ruthless churl informs the girl 
He loves her only as a brother ! 



For he, in turn, courts Pholoe, — 

A maid unscotched of love's fierce vims ; 

Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate 
Ere Pholoe will mate with Cvrus ! 



44 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Ah, weak and hapless human hearts, 
By cruel Mother Venus fated 

To spend this life in hopeless strife, 
Because incongruously mated ! 

Such torture, Albius, is my lot ; 

For, though a better mistress wooed me, 
My Myrtale has captured me, 

And with her cruelties subdued me i 




TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 




II. 

RIEVE not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera 
may haunt you, 
Nor chant your mournful elegies because she 
faithless proves ; 
If now a younger man than you this cruel charmer 
loves, 
Let not the kindly favors of the past rise up to taunt 
you. 



Lycoris of the little brow for Cyrus feels a passion, 
x-\nd Cyrus, on the other hand, toward Pholoe inclines ; 
But ere this crafty Cyrus can accomplish his designs 

She-goats will wed Apulian wolves in deference to 
fashion. 



4& ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Such is the will, the cruel will, of love-inciting Venus, 
Who takes delight in wanton sport and ill-considered 

jokes, 
And brings ridiculous misfits beneath her brazen 
yokes, — 
A very infelicitous proceeding, just between us. 

As for myself, young Myrtale, slave-born and lacking 
graces, 
And wilder than the Adrian tides which form Calabrian 

bays, 
Entangled me in pleasing chains and compromising 
ways, 
When — just my luck — a better girl was courting my 
embraces. 





TO MAECENAS. 

.ECEXAS, thou of royalty's descent, 
Both my protector and dear ornament, 
Among humanity's conditions are 
Those who take pleasure in the flying car, 
Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, 
And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal ; 
While the ennobling palm, the prize of worth, 
Exalts them to the gods, the lords of earth. 



Here one is happy if the fickle crowd 

His name the threefold honor has allowed ; 

And there another, if into his stores 

Comes what is swept from Libyan threshing-floors. 

He who delights to till his father's lands, 

And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, 



48 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Can never to Attalic offers hark, 

Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark. 

The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, 

When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas 

Praises the restful quiet of his home, 

Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam ; 

Ah, speedily his shattered ships he mends, — 

To poverty his lesson ne'er extends. 

One there may be who never scorns to fill 

His cups with mellow draughts from Massic's hill, 

Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, 

Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, 

Now at the softly whispering spring, to dream 

Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream. 

For camp and trump and clarion some have zest, ■ 

The cruel wars the mothers so detest. 

'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, 

Unmindful of his home and tender wife, 

Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds 

Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds. 



TO MAECENAS. 49 

But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize 
Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies ; 
The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, 
Draw me away from people everywhere ; 
If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, 
Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres j 
And if you place me where no bard debars, 
With head exalted I shall strike the stars ! 




TO HIS BOOK. 




OU vain, self-conscious little book, 
Companion of my happy days, 
How eagerly you seem to look 
For wider fields to spread your lays ; 
My desk and locks cannot contain you, 
Nor blush of modesty restrain you. 



Well, then, begone, fool that thou art ! 
But do not come to me and cry, 

When critics strike you to the heart : 
" Oh, wretched little book am I!" 

You know I tried to educate you 

To shun the fate that must await you. 



TO HIS BOOK. 

In youth you may encounter friends 
(Pray this prediction be not wrong), 

But wait until old age descends 
And thumbs have smeared your gentlest song ; 

Then will the moths connive to eat you 

And rural libraries secrete you. 

However, should a friend some word 
Of my obscure career request, 

Tell him how deeply I was stirred 
To spread my wings beyond the nest ; 

Take from my years, which are before you, 

To boom my merits, I implore you. 

Tell him that I am short and fat, 
Quick in my temper, soon appeased, 

With locks of gray, — but what of that ? 
Loving the sun, with nature pleased. 

I 'm more than four and forty, hark you, — 

But ready for a night off, mark you ! 



51 




=$ 




FAME vs. RICHES. 

HE Greeks had genius, — 't was a gift 

The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure ; 
The boon of Fame they made their aim 
And prized above all worldly treasure. 

But we, — how do we train our youth? 

Not in the arts that are immortal, 
But in the greed for gains that speed 

From him who stands at Death's dark portal. 



Ah, when this slavish love of gold 
Once binds the soul in greasy fetters, 

How prostrate lies, — how droops and dies 
The great, the noble cause of letters ! 








THE LYRIC MUSE. 

LOVE the lyric muse ! 
For when mankind ran wild in groves 
Came holy Orpheus with his songs 
And turned men's hearts from bestial loves. 

From brutal force and savage wrongs ; 
Amphion, too, and on his lyre 

Made such sweet music all the day 
That rocks, instinct with warm desire, 
Pursued him in his glorious way. 



I love the lyric muse ! 
Hers was the wisdom that of yore 

Taught man the rights of fellow man, 
Taught him to worship God the more, 

And to revere love's holy ban. 



54 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Hers was the hand that jotted down 
The laws correcting divers wrongs ; 

And so came honor and renown 
To bards and to their noble songs. 



I love the lyric muse ! 
Old Homer sung unto the lyre ; 

Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days ; 
Still warmed by their immortal fire, 

How doth our patriot spirit blaze ! 
The oracle, when questioned, sings ; 

So our first steps in life are taught. 
In verse we soothe the pride of kings, 

In verse the drama has been wrought. 

I love the lyric muse ! 
Be not ashamed, O noble friend, 

In honest gratitude to pay 
Thy homage to the gods that send 

This boon to charm all ill away. 



THE LYRIC MUSE. 5 5 

With solemn tenderness revere 

This voiceful glory as a shrine 
Wherein the quickened heart may hear 

The counsels of a voice divine ! 





A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC 

AY the man who has cruelly murdered his 
sire — 
A crime to be punished with death — 
Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire 

Of his own foul and venomous breath ! 
What stomachs these rustics must have who can eat 

This dish that Canidia made, 
Which imparts to my colon a torturous heat, 
And a poisonous look, I 'm afraid ! 



They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke 
The fire-breathing bulls to the plow 

He smeared his whole body with garlic, — a joke 
Which I fully appreciate now. 



A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC. 57 

When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress, 
In which garlic was scattered about, 

It was cruel and rather low-down, I confess, 
But it settled the point beyond doubt. 

On thirsty Apulia ne'er has the sun 

Inflicted such terrible heat ; 
As for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was fun 

When compared with this garlic we eat ! 
Maecenas, if ever on garbage like this 

You express a desire to be fed, 
May Mrs. Maecenas object to your kiss, 

And lie at the foot of the bed ! 





AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE- 

bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive 
neck is bent, 
To share a husband's toil, or grasp his 
amorous intent ; 
Over the fields, in cooling streams, the heifer longs to go, 
Now with the calves disporting where the pussy-willows 
grow. 



Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, 

you shall learn 
How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn. 
Soon she will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the 

maid : 
And all the precious years that you have lost she will 

have paid. 



AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE. 59 

Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy, 
Or Chloris, or young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy, 
Whom, if you placed among the girls, and loosed his 

flowing locks, 
The wondering guests could not decide which one 

decorum shocks. 




AN APPEAL TO LYCE. 




YCE, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods 
will hear the dutiful, 
And brought old age upon you, though you 
still affect the beautiful. 
You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on 

quite aimlessly; 
And in your cups with quavering voice you torment 
Cupid shamelessly. 



For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than 

brotherly ; 
He knows a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are 

southerly. 



AN APPEAL TO LYCE. 



61 



He pats her pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a 

monstrosity ; 
Your wrinkles and your yellow teeth excite his animosity. 

For jewels bright and purple Coan robes you are not 

dressable ; 
Unhappily for you the public records are accessible. 
Where is your charm, and where your bloom and gait 

so firm and sensible, 
That drew my love from Cinara, — a lapse most 

indefensible ? 

To my poor Cinara in youth Death came with great 

celerity : 
Egad, that never can be said of you with any verity ! 
The old crow that you are, the teasing boys will jeer, 

compelling you 
To roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I 

am telling you. 





A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE. 

I. 

EE, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, 
Soracte mocks the sullen sky; 
How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, 
And chained with frost the rivers lie. 



Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth ; 

We '11 melt away the envious cold : 
And, better yet, sweet friend, we '11 wet 

Our whistles with some four-year-old. 



Commit all else unto the gods, 

Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring 
To fretful deeps and wooded steeps 

The mild, persuasive grace of Spring. 



A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE. 63 

Let not To-morrow, but To-day, 

Your ever active thoughts engage , 
Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling, 

Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age. 

Let 's steal content from Winter's wrath, 

And glory in the artful theft, 
That years from now folks shall allow 

'T was cold indeed when we got left. 

So where the whisperings and the mirth 

Of girls invite a sportive chap, 
Let 's fare awhile, — aha, you smile ; 

You guess my meaning, — verbum sap. 




A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE. 

II. 

OW stands Soracte white with snow, now bend 
the laboring trees, 
And with the sharpness of the frost the 
stagnant rivers freeze. 
Pile up the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer 

incline, 
And draw, my Thaliarchus, from the Sabine jar the wine. 




The rest leave to the gods, who still the fiercely warring 

wind, 
And to the morrow's store of good or evil give no 

mind. 



A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE. 6$ 

Whatever day your fortune grants, that day mark up for 

gain ; 
And in your youthful bloom do not the sweet amours 

disdain. 

Now on the Campus and the squares, when evening 

shades descend, 
Soft whisperings again are heard, and loving voices 

blend ; 
And now the low delightful laugh betrays the lurking 

maid, 
While from her slowly yielding arms the forfeiture is paid. 




TO DIANA. 




VIRGIN, tri-formed goddess fair, 

The guardian of the groves and hills, 
Who hears the girls in their despair 

Cry out in childbirth's cruel ills, 

And saves them from the Stygian flow 
Let the pine-tree my cottage near 

Be sacred to thee evermore, 
That I may give to it each year 

With joy the life-blood of the boar, 
Now thinking of the sidelong blow. 




TO HIS LUTE. 

F ever in the sylvan shade 

A song immortal we have made, 
Come now, O lute, I prithee come, 
Inspire a song of Latium ! 




A Lesbian first thy glories proved ; 

In arms and in repose he loved 

To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise 

His voice in Love's and Liber's praise. 

The Muses, too, and him who clings 

To Mother Venus' apron-strings, 

And Lycus beautiful, he sung 

In those old days when you were young. 



68 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

O shell, that art the ornament 
Of Phcebus, bringing sweet content 
To Jove, and soothing troubles all, — 
Come and requite me, when I call ! 




TO LEUCONOE. 




& 



m 



HAT end the gods may have ordained for me, 
And what for thee, 

Seek not to learn, Leuconoe ; we may not 



know. 
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest. 
'Tis for the best 

To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. 



If for more winters our poor lot is cast, 
Or this the last, 

Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas, 
Strain clear the wine ; this life is short, at best. 
Take hope with zest, 

And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease ! 




TO LEUCONOE. 




II. 
EEK not, Leuconoe, to know how long you 're 
going to live yet, 
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or 
what they 're going to give yet ; 
For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we 

worry, — 
Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a 

hurry. 
The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem 
Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am. 
And while we sport I '11 reel you off such odes as shall 

surprise ye ; 
To-morrow, when the headache comes, — well, then I '11 
satirize ye ! 




TO LIGURINUS. 



I. 



gjHOUGH mighty in Love's favor still, 




Though cruel yet, my boy, 

When the unwelcome dawn shall chill 

Your pride and youthful joy, 

The hair which round your shoulder grows 
Is rudely cut away, 

Your color, redder than the rose, 

Is changed by youth's decay, — 



Then, Ligurinus, in the glass 
Another you will spy. 

And as the shaggy face, alas ! 
You see, your grief will cry 



T2 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

" Why in my youth could I not learn 
The wisdom men enjoy? 

Or why to men cannot return 
The smooth cheeks of the boy?" 



,r* v 





TO LIGURINUS. 

II. 
CRUEL fair, 

Whose flowing hair 
The envy and the pride of all is, 
As onward roll 
The years, that poll 
Will get as bald as a billiard ball is ; 
Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply, 
Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply ! 



When you behold 
Yourself grown old, 
These words shall speak your spirits moody 



74 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

" Unhappy one ! 

What heaps of fun 
I Ve missed by being goody-goody ! 
Oh, that I might have felt the hunger 
Of loveless age when I was younger ! ' ; 




THE HAPPY ISLES. 




H, come with me to the Happy Isles 

In the golden haze off yonder, 
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles 
And the ocean loves to wander. 



Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, 

Proudly the fig rejoices, 
Merrily dance the virgin rills, 

Blending their myriad voices. 



Our herds shall suffer no evil there, 
But peacefully feed and rest them ; 

Never thereto shall prowling bear 
Or serpent come to molest them. 



76 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, 
Nor feverish drought distress us, 

But he that compasseth heat and cold 
Shall temper them both to bless us. 

There no vandal foot has trod, 

And the pirate hordes that wander 

Shall never profane the sacred sod 
Of those beautiful isles out yonder. 

Never a spell shall blight our vines 
Nor Sirius blaze above us, 

But you and I shall drink our wines 
And sing to the loved that love us. 

So come with me where Fortune smiles 
And the gods invite devotion, — 

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles 
In the haze of that far-orT ocean ! 





CONSISTENCY. 

HOULD painter attach to a fair human head 
The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, 
Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass, 
I am sure you would guy the rapscallion. 

Believe me, dear Pisos, that just such a freak 

Is the crude and preposterous poem 
Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds, 

With no depth of reason below 'em. 



'T is all very well to give license to art, — 

The wisdom of license defend I ; 
But the line should be drawn at the fripperish spawn 

Of a mere cacoethes scribendi. 



7S ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

It is too much the fashion to strain at effects, — 
Yes, that ; s what 's the matter with Hannah ! 

Our popular taste by the tyros debased 
Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana ! 

Should a patron require you to paint a marine, 

Would you work in some trees with their barks on? 

When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar, 
Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson? 

Now, this is my moral : Compose what you may, 

And Fame will be ever far distant 
Unless you combine with a simple design 

A treatment in toto consistent. 










TO POSTUMUS. 

POSTUMUS, my Postumus, the years are 

gliding past, 
And piety will never check the wrinkles 
coming fast, 
The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made, 
And death, which unimpeded comes to bear us to the 
shade. 



Old friend, although the tearless Pluto you may strive to 

please, 
And seek each year with thrice one hundred bullocks to 

appease, 
Who keeps the thrice-huge Geryon and Tityus his slaves, 
Imprisoned fast forevermore with cold and sombre waves, 



80 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Yet must that flood so terrible be sailed by mortals all, 
Whether perchance we may be kings and live in royal 

hall, 
Or lowly peasants struggling long with poverty and 

dearth, 
Still must we cross who live upon the favors of the 

earth. 

And all in vain from bloody war and contest we are 

free, 
And from the waves that hoarsely break upon the Adrian 

Sea; 
For our frail bodies all in vain our helpless terror 

grows 
In gloomy autumn seasons, when the baneful south wind 

blows. 

Alas ! the black Cocytus, wandering to the world below, 
That languid river to behold we of this earth must go ; 
To see the grim Danaides, that miserable race, 
And Sisyphus of Aeolus, condemned to endless chase. 



TO POST UM US. Si 

Behind you must you leave your home and land and 

wife so dear, 
And of the trees, except the hated cypresses, you rear, 
And which around the funeral piles as signs of mourning 

grow, 
Not one will follow you, their short-lived master, there 

below 

Your worthier heir, the precious Caecuban shall drink 

galore, 
Now with a hundred keys preserved and guarded in 

your store, 
And stain the pavements, pouring out in waste the 

nectar proud, 
Better than that with which the pontiffs' feasts have been 

endowed. 




TO MISTRESS PYRRHA. 




I. 

HAT perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, 
With smiles for diet, 
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, 
On the quiet? 
For whom do you bind up your tresses, 

As spun-gold yellow, — 
Meshes that go with your caresses, 
To snare a fellow? 



How will he rail at fate capricious, 

And curse you duly , 
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious, — 

You perfect, truly ! 



TO MISTRESS PYRRHA. 83 

Pyrrha, your love 's a treacherous ocean ; 

He '11 soon fall in there ! 
Then shall I gloat on his commotion, 

For / have been there ! 




TO MISTRESS PYRRHA. 




II. 

HAT dainty boy with sweet perfumes bedewed 
Has lavished kisses, Pyrrha, in the cave? 
For whom amid the roses, many-hued, 
Do you bind back your tresses' yellow wave? 

How oft will he deplore your fickle whim, 

And wonder at the storm and roughening deeps, 

Who now enjoys you, all in all to him, 

And dreams of you, whose only thoughts he keeps. 



Wretched are they to whom you seem so fair ; — 
That I escaped the storms, the gods be praised! 
My dripping garments, offered with a prayer, 
Stand as a tablet to the sea-god raised. 




TO MELPOMENE. 

OFTY and enduring is the monument I Ve 
reared : 
Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing ; 
And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal 
feared, 
Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing ! 




I shall not altogether die : by far my greater part 

Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal ; 
My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my 
art, — 

My works shall be my monument eternal ! 



86 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect 
our fanes, 

Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story 
How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains 

First raised the native lyric muse to glory. 

Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I 've won, 
And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying, 

Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son 
The Delphic laurel- wreath of fame undying ! 




TO PHYLLIS. 




I. 
OME, Phyllis, I 've a cask of wine 

That fairly reeks with precious juices, 
And in your tresses you shall twine 
The loveliest flowers this vale produces. 

My cottage wears a gracious smile ; 

The altar, decked in floral glory, 
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while 

As though it pined for honors gory. 



Hither our neighbors nimbly fare, 

The boys agog, the maidens snickering ; 

And savory smells possess the air, 

As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. 



88 ECHOES FROM THE SABIXE FARM. 

You ask what means this grand display. 

This festive throng and goodly diet? 
Well, since you "re bound to have your wav, 

I don't mind telling, on the quiet. 



'T is April 13, as you know, 

A day and month devote to Venus, 

Whereon was born, some years ago. 
Mv very worthy friend. Maecenas. 



Nay, pay no heed to Telephus : 

Your friends agree he does n"t love you. 
The way he flirts convinces us 

He reallv is not worthv of vou. 



Aurora's son, unhappy lad ! 

You know the fate that overtook him? 
And Pegasus a rider had, — 

I sav he had. before he shook him ! 



TO PHYLLIS. 89 

Hose docet (as you must agree) 

'T is meet that Phyllis should discover 

A wisdom in preferring me, 

And mittening every other lover. 



So come, O Phyllis, last and best 

Of loves with which this heart 's been smitten, 
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, 

And let your songs be those / 've written. 




TO PHYLLIS. 

II. 
WEET Phyllis, I have here a jar of old and 
precious wine, 
The years which mark its coming from the 
Alban hills are nine, 
And in the garden parsley, too, for wreathing garlands 

fair, 
And ivy in profusion to bind up your shining hair. 




Now smiles the house with silver ; the altar, laurel-bound. 
Longs with the sacrificial blood of lambs to drip around ; 
The company is hurrying, boys and maidens with the 

rest ; 
The flames are flickering as they whirl the dark smoke 

on their crest. 



TO PHYLLIS. 91 

Yet you must know the joys to which you have been 

summoned here 
To keep the Ides of April, to the sea-born Venus dear, — 
Ah, festal day more sacred than my own fair day of 

birth, 
Since from its dawn my loved Maecenas counts his years 

of earth. 

A rich and wanton girl has caught, as suited to her mind ; 
The Telephus whom you desire, — a youth not of your 

kind. 
She holds him bound with pleasing chains, the fetters of 

her charms, — 
Remember how scorched Phaethon ambitious hopes 

alarms. 

The winged Pegasus the rash Bellerophon has chafed. 
To you a grave example for reflection has vouchsafed, — 
Always to follow what is meet, and never try to catch 
That which is not allowed to you, an inappropriate 
match. 



92 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Come now, sweet Phyllis, of my loves the last, and hence 

the best 
(For nevermore shall other girls inflame this manly 

breast) ; 
Learn loving measures to rehearse as we may stroll 

along, 
And dismal cares shall fly away and vanish at your 

song. 



"S^, 






- 






' 








TO CHLOE. 



I. 




HY do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, 

That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, 
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn, 
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? 

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites, 

Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake, — 

Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, 
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. 



I do not follow with a tigerish thought 
Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest; 

So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, 
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast. 




TO CHLOE. 




II. 
HLOE, you shun me like a hind 

That, seeking vainly for her mother, 
Hears danger in each breath of wind, 
And wildly darts this way and t' other ; 



Whether the breezes sway the wood 

Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, 

She starts, and off, as though pursued, 
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. 



But, Chloe, you 're no infant thing 
That should esteem a man an ogre ; 

Let go your mother's apron-string 
And pin your faith upon a toga ! 





III. 

A PARAPHRASE. 

^|0W happens it, my cruel miss, 

You're always giving me the mitten? 
You seem to have forgotten this : 
That you no longer are a kitten ! 

A woman that has reached the years 
Of that which people call discretion 

Should put aside all childish fears 

And see in courtship no transgression. 



A mother's solace may be sweet, 
But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter ; 

And though all virile love be meet, 
You '11 find the poet's love is metre. 





IV 

A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715. 

INCE Chloe is so monstrous fair, 
With such an eye and such an air, 
What wonder that the world complains 
When she each am'rous suit disdains? 

Close to her mother's side she clings, 
And mocks the death her folly brings 
To gentle swains that feel the smarts 
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. 



Whilst thus the years of youth go by, 
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? 
Nay, cruel nymph ! come, choose a mate, 
x\nd choose him ere it be too late ! 





V. 

A PARAPHRASE, BY DR. I. \V. 

HY, Mistress Chloe, do you bother 
With prattlings and with vain ado 
Your worthy and industrious mother, 
Eschewing them that come to woo? 



Oh, that the awful truth might quicken 
This stern conviction to your breast : 

You are no longer now a chicken 
Too young to quit the parent nest. 



So put aside your froward carriage 

And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there 's time, 
Upon the righteousness of marriage 

With some such godly man as I 'm. 

7 





VI. 

A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER. 

YN that you, Chloe. to your moder sticken, 
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken ; 
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding 
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. 
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder 
For to beare swete company with some oder ; 
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, 
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth ; 
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes 
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys ; 
But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye 
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. 




TO M^CENAS. 




g^HAN you, O valued friend of mine, 
A better patron no?i est! 
Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine, 
You '11 find it poor but honest. 



I put it up that famous day 

You patronized the ballet, 
And the public cheered you such a way 

As shook your native valley. 



Caecuban and the Calean brand 
May elsewhere claim attention ; 

But / have none of these on hand, — 
For reasons I '11 not mention. 



IOO ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

ENVOY. 

So, come ! though favors I bestow 
Cannot be called extensive, 

Who better than my friend should know 
That they 're at least expensive? 





TO BARINE. 

F for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken, 
A plague comes, Barine, to grieve you ; 
If on tooth or on finger a black mark shall 
linger 
Your beauty to mar, I '11 believe you. 

But no sooner, the fact is, you bind, as your tact is, 

Your head with the vows of untruth, 

Than you shine out more charming, and, what 's more 

alarming, 
You come forth beloved of our youth. 



It is advantageous, but no less outrageous, 
Your poor mother's ashes to cheat ; 
While the gods of creation and each constellation 
You seem to regard as your meat. 



102 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Now Venus, I own it, is pleased to condone it ; 
The good-natured nymphs merely smile ; 
And Cupid is merry, — 't is humorous, very, — 
And sharpens his arrows the while. 

Our boys you are making the slaves for your taking, 
A new band is joined to the old : 
While the horrified matrons your juvenile patrons 
In vain would bring back to the fold. 

The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellows 
Confess to a dread of your house ; 
But a more pressing duty, in view of your beauty, 
Is the young wife's concern for her spouse. 





THE RECONCILIATION. 
I. 

HE. 

HEN you were mine, in auld lang syne, 
And when none else your charms might 
ogle, 

I '11 not deny, fair nymph, that I 
Was happier than a heathen mogul. 



SHE. 

Before she came, that rival flame 
(Had ever mater saucier filia?), 

In those good times, bepraised in rhymes, 
I was more famed than Mother Ilia. 



104 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

HE. 

Chloe of Thrace ! With what a grace 
Does she at song or harp employ her ! 

I 'd gladly die, if only I 

Could live forever to enjoy her ! 

SHE. 

My Sybaris so noble is 

That, by the gods, I love him madly ! 
That I might save him from the grave, 

I 'd give my life, and give it gladly ! 

HE. 

What if ma belle from favor fell, 

And I made up my mind to shake her; 

Would Lydia then come back again, 
And to her quondam love betake her? 

SHE. 

My other beau should surely go, 

And you alone should find me gracious ; 

For no one slings such odes and things 
As does the lauriger Horatius ! 




THE RECONCILIATION. 
II. 

HORACE. 

HILE favored by thy smiles no other youth in 
amorous teasing 
Around thy snowy neck his folding arms was 
wont to fling; 
As long as I remained your love, acceptable and pleasing, 
I lived a life of happiness beyond the Persian king. 




LYDIA. 

While Lydia ranked Chloe in your unreserved opinion, 
And for no other cherished thou a brighter, livelier 
flame, 

I, Lydia, distinguished throughout the whole dominion, 
Surpassed the Roman Ilia in eminence of fame. 



106 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

HORACE. 

'T is now the Thracian Chloe whose accomplishments 
inthrall me, — 
So sweet in modulations, such a mistress of the lyre. 
In truth the fates, however terrible, could not appaL me ; 
If they would spare her, sweet my soul, I gladly 
would expire. 

LYDIA. 

And now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames me 

With mutual, restless passion and an all-consuming fire ; 

And if the fates, however dread, would spare the youth 

who claims me, 

Not only once would I face death, but gladly twice 

expire. 

HORACE. 

What if our early love returns to prove we were mistaken 
And bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah ! 
nevermore ? 

What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shaken 
And slighted Lydia again glide through the open door? 



THE RECONCILIATION. \0J 

LYDIA. 

Though he is fairer than the star that shines so far 
above you, 
Thou lighter than a cork, more stormy than the Adrian 
Sea, 
Still should I long to live with you, to live for you and 
love you, 
And cheerfully see death's approach if thou wert 'near 
to me. 




THE ROASTING OF LYDIA. 




O more your needed rest at night 
By ribald youth is troubled ; 
No more your windows, fastened tight, 
Yield to their knocks redoubled. 



No longer you may hear them cry, 
" Why art thou, Lydia, lying 

In heavy sleep till morn is nigh, 
While I, your love, am dying?" 



Grown old and faded you bewail 

The rake's insulting sally, 
While round your home the Thracian gale 

Storms through the lonely alley. 



THE ROASTING OF LYDIA. IO9 

What furious thoughts will fill your breast, 

What passions, fierce and tinglish 
(Cannot be properly expressed 

In calm, reposeful English.) 

Learn this, and hold your carping tongue : 

Youth will be found rejoicing 
In ivy green and myrtle young, 

The praise of fresh life voicing; 

And not content to dedicate, 

With much protesting shiver, 
The sapless leaves to winter's mate, 

Hebrus, the cold dark river. 




TO GLYCERA. 




HE cruel mother of the Loves, 
And other Powers offended, 
Have stirred my heart, where newly roves 
The passion that was ended. 



'T is Glycera, to boldness prone, 
Whose radiant beauty fires me ; 

While fairer than the Parian stone 
Her dazzling face inspires me. 



And on from Cyprus Venus speeds, 
Forbidding — ah ! the pity — 

The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds, 
And such irrelevant ditty. 



TO GLYCERA. 1 1 I 

Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too ; 

Have bowls of wine adjacent ; 
And ere our sacrifice is through 

She may be more complaisant. 




TO LYDIA. 




I. 

HEN, Lydia, you (once fond and true, 
But now grown cold and supercilious) 
Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms- 
Well, by the dog ! it makes me bilious ! 



Then with despite my cheeks wax white, 
My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, 

My eyes o'erflow with tears which show 
That passion melts my vitals, Liddy ! 



Deny, false jade, your escapade, 

And, lo ! your wounded shoulders show it ! 
No manly spark left such a mark — 

Leastwise he surely was no poet ! 



TO LYDIA. 113 

With savage buss did Telephus 

Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow ; 

As you would save what Venus gave, 
I charge you shun that awkward fellow ! 

And now I say thrice happy they 
That call on Hymen to requite 'em; 

For, though love cools, the wedded fools 
Must cleave 'til death doth disunite 'em ! 




TO LYDIA. 




II. 

HEN praising Telephus you sing 
His rosy neck and waxen arms, 
Forgetful of the pangs that wring 
This heart for my neglected charms, 

Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows, 
My color comes and goes the while, 
And my rebellious liver glows, 
And fiercely swells with laboring bile. 



Perchance yon silly, passionate youth, 
Distempered by the fumes of wine, 
Has marred your shoulder with his tooth, 
Or scarred those rosy lips of thine. 



TO LYDIA. I I 

Be warned ; he cannot faithful prove, 
Who, with the cruel kiss you prize, 
Has hurt the little mouth I love, 
Where Venus's own nectar lies. 

Whom golden links unbroken bind, 
Thrice happy — more than thrice are they ; 
And constant, both in heart and mind, 
In love await the final day. 





TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. 

O Scythian and Cantabrian plots 

Pay them no heed, O Quintius 
So long as we 
From care are free, 
Vexations cannot cinch us. 

Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth, 
Speed hand in hand together; 
The songs we sing 
In time of spring 
Are hushed in wintry weather. 



Why, even flow'rs change with the hours, 
And the moon has divers phases ; 



TO QUINTIUS HI RP IN US. 1 17 

And shall the mind 
Be racked to find 
A clew to Fortune's mazes? 

Nay ; 'neath this tree let you and me 
Woo Bacchus to caress us ; 

We 're old, 't is true, 

But still we two 
Are thoroughbreds, God bless us ! 

While the wine gets cool in yonder pool, 
Let 's spruce up nice and tidy ; 

Who knows, old boy, 

But we may decoy 
The fair but furtive Lyde? 

She can execute on her ivory lute 
Sonatas full of passion, 
And she bangs her hair 
(Which is passing fair) 
Tn the good old Spartan fashion. 




WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. 




VARUS mine, 

Plant thou the vine 
Within this kindly soil of Tibur j 
Nor temporal woes, 
Nor spiritual, knows 
The man who 's a discreet imbiber. 
For who doth croak 
Of being broke, 
Or who of warfare, after drinking? 
With bowl atween us, 
Of smiling Venus 
And Bacchus shall we sing, I 'm thinking. 



WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. 1 19 

Of symptoms fell 

Which brawls impel, 
Historic data give us warning; 

The wretch who fights 

When full, of nights, 
Is bound to have a head next morning. 

I do not scorn 

A friendly horn, 
But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em ! 

Your howling bat 

Is stale and flat 
To one who knows, because he 's tried 'em ! 

The secrets of 

The life I love 
(Companionship with girls and toddy) 

I would not drag 

With drunken brag 
Into the ken of everybody; 

But in the shade 

Let some coy maid 



120 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, 
Then all day long, 
With mirth and song, 

Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle ! 





AN ODE TO FORTUNE. 

LADY FORTUNE ! 't is to thee I call, 
Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown 
The veriest clod with riches and renown, 
And change a triumph to a funeral. 
The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas, 
Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees 
Invoke thee, all. 

Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands, 
Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red 
With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread ; 

Within thy path no human valor stands, 
And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown 
The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down 

From kingly hands. 



122 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Necessity precedes thee in thy way; 
Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen 
Dancing attendance with obsequious mien ; 

But with what coward and abject dismay 
The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly 
When once their jars of luscious wine run dry, — 

Such ingrates they ! 

■ 

Fortune, I call on thee to bless 
Our king, — our Caesar girt for foreign wars ! 
Help him to heal these fratricidal scars 

That speak degenerate shame and wickedness ; 
And forge anew our impious spears and swords, 
Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes 

Our Past redress 1 




TO A JAR OF WINE. 




j" GRACIOUS jar, — my friend, my twin, 
Born at the time when I was born, - 

Whether tomfoolery you inspire 
Or animate with love's desire, 

Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, 
Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine ! 

Come from your place this festal day; 

Corvinus hither wends his way, 
And there 's demand for wine ! 



Corvinus is the sort of man 

Who dotes on tedious argument. 

An advocate, his ponderous pate 
Is full of Blackstone and of Kent ; 

Yet not insensible is he, 

O genial Massic flood ! to thee. 



124 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Why, even Cato used to take 
A modest, surreptitious nip 

At meal- times for his stomach's sake, 
Or to forefend la grippe. 

How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts, 
And bare the cruel knave's design ; 

How through thy fascinating arts 

We discount Hope, O gracious wine ! 

And passing rich the poor man feels 

As through his veins thy affluence steals. 

Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing, 
And plot full many a naughty plot 
With damsels fair — nor shall we care 

Whether school keeps or not ! 
And whilst thy charms hold out to burn 

We shall not deign to go to bed, 

But we shall paint creation red ; 
So, fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine, - 

My lawyer friend, as aforesaid. 




TO POMPEIUS VARUS- 




JpgiOMPEY, what fortune gives you back 

To the friends and the gods who love you ? 
Once more you stand in your native land, 
With your native sky above you. 
Ah, side by side, in years agone, 
We Ve faced tempestuous weather, 
And often quaffed 
The genial draught 
From the same canteen together. 



When honor at Phillippi fell 

A prey to brutal passion, 
I regret to say that my feet ran away 

In swift Iambic fashion. 



126 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

You were no poet ; soldier born, 
You stayed, nor did you wince then. 
Mercury came 
To my help, which same 
Has frequently saved me since then. 

But now you 're back, let 's celebrate 

In the good old way and classic ; 
Come, let us lard our skins with nard, 

And bedew our souls with Massic ! 
With fillets of green parsley leaves 
Our foreheads shall be done up ; 
And with song shall we 
Protract our spree 
Until the morrow's sun-up. 





THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS. 

^CENAS, I propose to fly 

To realms beyond these human portals ; 
No common things shall be my wings, 
But such as sprout upon immortals. 

Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, 

Your Horace, precious (so you 've told him), 

Shall soar away ; no tomb of clay 

Nor Stygian prison-house shall hold him. 



Upon my skin feathers begin 

To warn the songster of his fleeting; 
But never mind, I leave behind 

Songs all the world shall keep repeating. 



128 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Lo ! Boston girls, with corkscrew curls, 
And husky westerns, wild and woolly, 

And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes, 
And all profess to know me fully. 

Methinks the West shall know me best, 
And therefore hold my memory dearer; 

For by that lake a bard shall make 
My subtle, hidden meanings clearer. 

So cherished, I shall never die ; 

Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, 
Your elegies, and plaintive cries, 

For I shall fertilize no daisies ! 




TO VENUS. 




ENUS, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen ! 
Desert that Cyprus way off yonder, 
And fare you hence, where with incense 
My Glycera would have you fonder ; 
And to your joy bring hence your boy, 

The Graces with unbelted laughter, 
The Nymphs, and Youth, — then, then, in sooth. 
Should Mercury come tagging after. 




«/ / 




IN THE SPRINGTIME. 

I. 

IS spring ! The boats bound to the sea ; 
The breezes, loitering kindly over 
The fields, again bring herds and men 
The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. 



Now Venus hither leads her train; 

The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies ; 
The moon is bright, and by her light 

Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. 



Bind myrtle now about your brow, 

And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses ; 

Appease god Pan, who, kind to man, 
Our fleeting life with affluence blesses ; 



IN THE SPRINGTIME. 131 

But let the changing seasons mind us 

That Death 's the certain doom of mortals, — 

Grim Death, who waits at humble gates, 
And likewise stalks through kingly portals. 

Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades 

Enfold you with their hideous seemings; 

Then love and mirth and joys of earth 
Shall fade away like fevered dreamings. 




IN THE SPRINGTIME. 



II. 




jHE western breeze is springing up, the ships 

are in the bay, 

And spring has brought a happy change as 

winter melts away. 

No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight ; 

No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. 



Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance, 
While from above the kindly moon gives an approving 

glance ; 
The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the 

choir, 
And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 

fire. 



IN THE SPRINGTIME. 133 

Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, 
And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate ; 
To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely, 
A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specif}'. 

Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike ; 
The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike. 

^estius, though blest you are beyond the common run, 
Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. 

The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon the 

grip- 
Once there you cannot throw the dice, nor taste the 

wine you sip ; 
Xor look on blooming Lycidas, whose beauty you 

commend, 
To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend. 




TO A BULLY. 




OU, blatant coward that you are, 

Upon the helpless vent your spite. 
Suppose you ply your trade on me ; 
Come, monkey with this bard, and see 
How I '11 repay your bark with bite ! 



Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute ! 

And I shall hound you far and wide, 
As fiercely as through drifted snow 
The shepherd dog pursues what foe 

Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side. 



TO A BULLY. 135 



The chip is on my shoulder — see? 

But touch it and I '11 raise your fur; 
I 'm full of business, so beware ! 
For, though I 'm loaded up for bear, 

I 'm quite as like to kill a cur ! 








TO MOTHER VENUS. 

MOTHER VENUS, quit, I pray. 
Your violent assailing ! 
The arts, forsooth, that fired mv youth 
At last are unavailing ; 
My blood runs cold, I : m getting old. 
And all my powers are failing. 



Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings, 
And elsewhere deign to mellow 

With thy soft arts the anguished hearts 
Of swain that writhe and bellow : 

And right away seek out, I pray, 
Young Paullus. — he 's your fellow ! 



TO MOTHER VENUS. 137 

You '11 find young Paullus passing fair, 

Modest, refined, and tony ; 
Go, now, incite the favored wight ! 

With Venus for a crony 
He '11 outshine all at feast and ball 

And conversazione ! 

Then shall that godlike nose of thine 

With perfumes be requited, 
And then shall prance in Salian dance 

The girls and boys delighted, 
And while the lute blends with the flute 

Shall tender loves be plighted. 

But as for me, as you can see, 

I 'm getting old and spiteful. 
I have no mind to female kind, 

That once I deemed delightful ; 
No more brim up the festive cup 

That sent me home at night full. 



138 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Why do I falter in my speech, 

cruel Ligurine? 
Why do I chase from place to place 

In weather wet and shiny? 
Why down my nose forever flows 

The tear that 's cold and briny? 




TO LYDIA. 




§§)ELL me, Lydia, tell me why, 

By the gods that dwell above, 
Sybaris makes haste to die 
Through your cruel, fatal love. 



Now he hates the sunny plain ; 

Once he loved its dust and heat. 
Now no more he leads the train 

Of his peers on coursers fleet. 



Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, 
And avoids the wrestling-rings, — 

He who formerly was such 

An expert with quoits and things. 



14° ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say 
Why your Sybaris lies hid, 

Why he shuns the martial play, 
As we 're told Achilles did. 




K. J 




TO NEOBULE. 

SORRY life, forsooth, these wretched girls 

are undergoing, 
Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, 
from loving favors showing, 
For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing ! 

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, 
And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, 
Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning. 



Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he 

breasted, 
Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, 
Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested 5 



I4 2 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising ; 
The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond 

surmising, — 
No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been 
monopolizing ! 

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly 

dealing, 
Who never can in love's affair give license to their 

feeling, 
Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is 

stealing. 




AT THE BALL GAME. 




HAT gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none 
can dispute, 
Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and 
flute? 
What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place 
On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space? 



Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings. 
Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor 

things ; 
But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought, 
And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought. 



144 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars, 

And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars ; 

And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns, 

While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns. 



Lo ! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout, 

Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out ; 

And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky, 

So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high. 

Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff, 
The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff; 
And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere, 
When twice and thrice Mikellius beats the mocking air. 



And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps, 
So horror sways the throng, — Pfefferius sleeps ! 
And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired, 
The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired. 



AT THE BALL GAME. 1 45 

So waxes fierce the strife between these godlike men ; 
And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen, 
So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights 
As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights. 



But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward, 
If you a place among the lyric bards accord ; 
With crest exalted, and, O "People," with delight, 
I '11 proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight. 



IO 





HE day is done; and, lo ! the shades 
Melt 'neath Diana's mellow grace. 
Hark, how those deep, designing maids 
Feign terror in this sylvan place ! 
Come, friends, 't is time that we should go ; 
We 're honest married folk, you know. 



Was not the wine delicious cool 

Whose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced? 
And by that clear Bandusian pool 

How gayly Chloe sung and danced ! 
And Lydia Die, — aha, methinks 
You '11 not forget the saucy minx ! 



I48 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM. 

But, oh, the echoes of those songs 

That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts ! 
Not to that age nor this belongs 

The glory of what heaven-born arts 
Speak with the old distinctive charm 
From yonder humble Sabine farm ! 

The day is done. Now off to bed, 
Lest by some rural ruse surprised, 

And by those artful girls misled, 
You two be sadly compromised. 

You go ; perhaps I 'd better stay 

To shoo the giddy things away ! 

But sometime we shall meet again 
Beside Digentia, cool and clear, — 

You and we twain, old friend ; and then 
We '11 have our fill of pagan cheer. 

Then, could old Horace join us three, 

How proud and happy he would be ! 



EPILOGUE. 149 

Or if we part to meet no more 

This side the misty Stygian Sea, 
Be sure of this : on yonder shore 

Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we ; 
A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend, — 
The fellowship that knows no end ! 

E. F. 




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